Radio: A Committee Christmas Carol

This blog has traditionally been for anything I wrote, so I think this counts - it's the Forge Radio Committee Christmas play that I co-wrote and which was broadcast on 25th Dec 2011. That's right, the actual Christmas day. It's a bit silly but it was a good laugh to write and record. Enjoy.

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Based (loosely) on A Christmas Carol and the Nativity 'A Committee Christmas Carol' follows station manager Ebeneezer Whitehouse back in time to the very first Christmas as he attempts to rediscover his long lost Christmas Spirit.

Written by James Kenny and Georgie Beardmore
Produced by Jack and Sophia
And starring the Forge Radio Committee.

A Committee Christmas Carol by Forgeradio on Mixcloud

Creative Writing "Farsight"

Creative writing is back! This time for a shiny new LSR show "Turnfables" - less folk, more low-fi dubstep, Thursdays 3-4pm. Here's my very first piece that I wrote for them - it was inspired by the track "Farsight" from Ghostek & Buck UK.

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I am a speck on a deserted beach in winter, all hat and scarf and no umbrella. Up ahead steel grey clouds tumble, pouring fourth not raindrops but sheets of water that fall like perfect panes of glass. They shatter when they hit me and a thousand tiny shards dance around my feet, my shoulders, my wind-scorched face, water droplets tracking my cheeks like tears. The water cascades off my back like a waterfall, my clothes cling to me as ice creeps into my bones. I have a river for a coat and two puddles for shoes, and yet I don’t shudder, I don’t shiver, the cold does not bite. I wrap the rain around me like a shroud and I watch. I watch the waves. I watch them breathe softly over the sand, in and out, in and out. My own breath matches, in and out, in and out. We are one, me and the ocean, we’re in perfect time. Together we are perfectly calm. No rage today, no crashing upon the shore, only gentle drifting under a warring sky. Let the clouds fight, with their thunder and their lightening. Down here all is peaceful. And soon all will be well.

I am speck on a deserted beach in winter, and as the soft roaring of the waves mingles with the drumming of the raindrops, I wonder if all the water will wash me away. 

Creative Writing: "Planning A Journey"

This is the final piece I wrote for Folktales following it's sad ending earlier today. I will miss writing for it greatly and have enjoyed every show I ever listened to immensely. Let's hope it's simply only in hiatus, eh?
This is the first poem I have written in earnest since the age of ten, so be gentle in your judgement. I should say also that the element of sadness is only due to me missing home, and not to the fact that I don't enjoy my life over in Germany. It was inspired by "Planning A Journey" by Leeds local folk band Whiter Than. 
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Take me back to those northern towns,
I miss the wind and the rain.
Those people I know, those places I go,
Here’s hoping that nothing has changed.

It feels like I’ve been here too long now,
Across the channel, far from home.
I’m calling family and friends, trying to pretend,
That I’m happy, that I don’t feel alone.

Because there’s something not quite right here,
I feel somehow that I don’t quite belong.
Six months passed away and there isn’t a day,
When everything fits and nothing goes wrong.

I long for a place, not exciting, not pretty,
Rather grimy, not special, a typical city,
But a place that is, for one person at least,
Completely and utterly beautiful.
I want to breathe in concrete and smoke,
Fill my lungs with memories and choke,
With laughter as I recall every time,
We did something incredibly stupid.
Let’s go to the places we said that we would,
Visit again if only we could,
Find the money or the time to spend,
On such fun and triviality.
We can walk together down old streets in old shoes,
Sit in the park at night and listen to blues.
We’ll drink coffee in that place we went every day,
And I’ll feel comfortable in my own skin.
We’ll shop for niche clothing and second hand books,
In tiny hidden shops, and get funny looks,
For giggling loudly at some silly joke
That no one else will find funny.

I’ll do everything I always did,
With the people I always did them with,
And I’ll love every second,
Because I know that this is my place, and these are my people.

So, then, I’m planning a journey,
For a time not so far away.
And then I won’t need to reminisce about everything I miss,
I can live it; I’ll be home, to stay.

I’m counting down the days until June.
Get the kettle on, love, I’ll see you soon.

Creative Writing: "Arguments"

You know the drill by now. Folktales (3pm every Sunday, LSRfm.com) gave me a song. I wrote to it. This week it was "Arguments" by Handmade Hands and here is the result. Incidentally, the story in the first paragraph is entirely true, given a touch of artistic license.
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When I was small, the biggest argument I ever had was over a backwards roll. I was six and my best friend, a budding gymnast, thought I was silly for not being able to do one. I remember the day clearly. We were playing in her back garden in the beating sun, barefooted and barelegged. The sprinklers were on and there had just been ice-cream. She was performing a series of perfect gymnastic manoeuvres, cartwheels and handstands and, of course, backwards rolls. I whooped and clapped like the perfect audience, in awe of my talented friend until she, flushed with her success, suggested I join in. I was less than keen. This was not my forte and I was scared of hurting myself. Undeterred and ignoring my protests, she gave me an almighty shove and my feet went up over my head and the world was turned upside down. I had, unwillingly, executed a perfect backwards roll, and I was not happy about it. Furious and teary with shock, I stomped off to find my Wellington boots, threatening to go home. It wasn’t until my friend, distraught that I was leaving, burst into tears too that everything was reconciled. We went back outside into the garden and began a new game, tears and trauma all forgotten.

Now I’m older, I often wish that all arguments could be solved so simply. But adults don’t care when you threaten to leave, and children are too carefree to hold grudges.

Life is circular these days, isn’t it? There’ll be something tedious little incident, something so unimportant and insignificant that we’ll wonder, later on, why we even noticed. But it’ll cause grinding nerves and grinding teeth and suddenly we’ll be red in the face and screaming blue murder. Every past wrong will be dredged up and wrung out over and over again. Every little thing that you do that infuriates me I will throw in your face with relish and you’ll delight in informing me of all the little things that I do that make your skin crawl.

I'm sure I’ve said these things before. Why aren’t you listening? Why aren’t you listening??

Listen to me!

And then you snap. And then I snap. And then there’s a resounding crack and this relationship is held together by splinters.

No one will speak now for a while now. We’re too busy listening to the harsh words still ringing in our ears. We’ll say later that we didn’t mean them, but we did, and we know we’ll say them all again and mean them just as much. Words don’t just cut, they pierce and burrow and crawl under your skin, burning and sniping and etching themselves on your memory for ever.

Soon, we’ll kiss and make up. Everything will be peaches and cream. Until the next time, that is, because we’re repeating ourselves, repeating ourselves. And, when the shouting begins once more, when we say those things we’ve said a million times over, I will sigh and wish I was six years old again when it was so easy to forgive and forget. 

Creative Writing: "Films"

Needless to say, this was written for Folktales, broadcast 3-4.30pm on LSRfm.com every Sunday. It was written to "Films" by Pengilly's.
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It’s dark in here, all black walls and dim lighting but for the silver story sheet that hangs, semi-concealed, behind swathes of red velvet. The floor is sticky from generations of spilt drinks and dropped popcorn, the carpet worn through by the tramping feet of a million clumsy fantasists. Tiny pinpricks guide our way into the rafters towards the formerly plush cushioned seats; they’re now threadbare through years of hard labour, though the rows remain as neat. Soft, unrecognisable music drifts from a hidden speaker, murmuring words we can almost catch from songs we almost remember. We are quiet; something in the air demands hushed tones.

Amongst this we huddle, we dreamers and escape artists. Waiting, waiting. Those romantics and realists, sceptics and visionaries united in one, dramatic, over-reaching desire: 

“Hope it’s a good film.”

It feels good to be here, in this room, amongst stifled giggles and the covert holding of hands. It’s cosy. Safe. 

Suddenly, the cessation of noise. Music stops, lights doused, the curtains drawn back. Hushed voices die in throats and silence descends, punctuated only by the odd cough or low whisper. We rustle our expensive sweet papers and think that that’s what anticipation must sound like. 

Waiting, still waiting. Any second now...

A burst of sound, a stream of light. Gems flood the silver, creating pictures from jewels: rubies, emeralds, sapphires - all spiralling into each other with blinding clarity. Is there anything more beautiful than this? 

"Please remember to turn off your mobile phone."

Oh. Well, that killed the mood a little bit. 

Advertisements drip on and unrelentingly on. Cars, sofas, energy drinks - all troop depressingly by in a haze of high definition colour. We dreamers all agree that this was not what we had in mind. We were promised another world, and not one sold to us at half-price. Where is the adventure, the soul scorching emotion, that bit that makes everyone cry? Our rubies and emeralds are being transformed into something plastic and worthless. What a tragic waste of magic. 

We’ll just have to wait a bit longer, that’s all. 

Look! The director’s signature, in all it’s six-foot scrawled glory, signalling the end of this hellish corporate interlude. Signalling the beginning of something wonderful. Something bright and perfect and alive. It’s the one we’ve all been waiting for. Let’s give those gem-stones back their value. 

Cue music. Marker. Places, people!

Are we rolling? Good. Ok, then. 

Lights. 

Camera. 

Action. 

Creative Writing: "Carry You Home"

This was written for the Folktales Christmas Special (3-4pm every Sunday on LSRfm.com). It's written to "Carry You Home" by the Lancashire Hotpots, which is the best Christmas song of all time, no contest. It's the first piece I've written in ages with dialogue, and I'm crap with dialogue, so go easy on me. Merry Christmas, everyone. 
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“I’m back!” I shouted as I came through the front door, stamping snow off my boots. No answer. It was the night before Christmas and all through the house, no creature was stirring, not even Jessie. I pushed the door shut and shouted again.
     “Jessie! Where are you?” I paused, waiting for her to shout back. When there was nothing, I tried again. “I have pizza!"
     “I’m in the living room!” came the muffled reply. Pizza always gets a response. 
      I kicked off my shoes and padded down the hall. Sure enough, there she was, huddled next to the radiator by the window and wearing one of the hideous jumpers her grandma knits to keep warm. She’d been looking at the old photographs again; there were piles of them surrounding her feet and she clutched an empty wine glass between icy fingers. I didn’t need to look at her rid-rimed eyes to know that she’d been crying. 
I disentangled the wine glass from her grip and replaced it with a pizza box. “You look like you need something stronger than Chardonnay,” I told her.
     “Mmmm.” She looked at me blearily. “What’re you offering?”
     I opened my jacket to show her what I had picked up from the off-licence on my way back to the house.   “Why if it isn’t our good friends Mr Rum and the good Lord Whiskey, come to warm our cockles this cold winter’s night!” I sounded like a reject from a Dickens novel, but it made her smile all the same. “Which one do you want?”
      Jessie raised a weary arm. “Eenie, meenie, minie, mo, catch a – no, you know what, just give me the whiskey.” 
     I handed her the bottle and watched as she took a good long swig. “That’s the spirit,” I said cheerfully as she grimaced, the alcoholic burn obviously hitting her throat. 
     “Spirit?” Jessie grimaced again, but with humour this time. “That’s a terrible pun, even for you, Mickey.”
     “Ah well, it’s Christmas Eve, you can let me off my lack of wit and charm just for one night.” I plonked myself on the floor opposite her and helped myself to some pizza. For a while we both chewed out slices in silence, listening to the distant rumble of traffic from the street outside. I stared at the photos that littered the floor, all those smiling faces looking up at me, frozen in time. God, we were beautiful. 
     There’d been a whole bunch of us in the beginning. It was going to be fantastic, the best idea we ever had, heading south to live the dream. But they’d all slowly fallen away, some more tragically than others, and now it was just me and Jessie, alone in the Big Smoke and far from home. James, four months back, had been a terrible shock. When I close my eyes I can still see his face, pale on the crisp white hospital pillow, looking strange behind an alien mass of tubes and scars. We watched him slip away without saying another word. I often wonder if he felt it or if he heard the bang when the lorry hit. We’ll never know. 
    A picture caught my eye; a picture of myself, head down and looking terrible, being supported by two laughing girls. Beth and Katy: both brilliant, both gone. Beth had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time that fateful July when the terrorists had hit the Underground, and Katy… well, who knows where Katy was now. She was never the same after Beth died and one day we came home to find her stuff gone and a note on the kitchen table that simply read “love you guys.” She’d never got back in touch. I hoped that wherever she was this Christmas, she was happy. 
      I waved the photograph at Jessie. “Remember this?” I asked. “God, what a night!”
Jessie took the photo and laughed, igniting for a moment that spark of joy that had always been alight in those blue eyes before it was doused by too much sadness and loss. “Do I! Man, you were so wasted! We had to drag you out that club, you kept trying to dance with the bouncer!”
I took a gulp of whiskey and shook my head. “I think you made that up. I don’t remember that happening.”
Jessie rolled her eyes. “Of course you don’t remember it, drunkard. You’d had at least twelve JD and cokes.”
     “Alright, alright,” I conceded. “But people have done worse things under the influence. I remember when a certain someone got too happy with the Lambrini and ended up half naked in the fountain in the middle of the village…” Jessie tried to protest but her mouth was too full of pepperoni, extra cheese. “You know,” I continued with mock seriousness, “you could have been arrested…”
Jessie swallowed her mouthful. “Whatever, Mickey…” We lapsed into silence again, occasionally passing the whiskey bottle back and forth. After a while, Jessie gave a dry little sob. I took her hand.
     “I know, Jess, I know…” I couldn’t think of anything to say, any new words of comfort. I’d said them all before. “I miss them too…” I held her close as she cried, her tears flowing down her face onto my shoulder; I’d lost count of the amount of times we’d sat in the same place recently, doing the same thing. I felt so damn helpless…
     Wait, I could do better than this. I could take her mind of this empty house that was too full of memories. I leapt to my feet.
     Jessie looked up at me. “Mickey, what is it? Did you hear a burglar?” Her tone suggested that she thought that would just be typical. 
     “I’ve had an amazing idea,” I said excitedly. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? It made so much sense! “Come one, grab your stuff, let’s go.” I began pulling her to her feet.
     “What are we doing?” Jess asked bewilderedly, allowing me to drag her from the room and upstairs.   “What’s your amazing idea?” I didn’t answer until I managed to pull her all the way onto the landing and had started to root through the piles of stuff, looking for my rucksack. 
     “Why is it,” I said, abandoning my search and running into the bathroom instead to seize both our toothbrushes, “that at Christmas, at this supposedly festive and joyous time of year, we’ve confined ourselves to this miserable house with its miserable memories and committed ourselves to having a miserable time?”
     “Because we’ve got no where else to go?”
     Time for the big reveal. “But we do, don’t we!” I said triumphantly. “We can go home!”
     I saw the realisation dawn behind Jessie’s eyes. “But home’s miles away! Hours and hours! It’ll be Boxing Day before we get there!”
     “Not if we drive all night. We’ll get coffee and take it in turns driving.” I thought about the battered old Ford that stood on the driveway. “The car’ll probably make it. And if it breaks down, well… I’ll carry you home this Christmas! Because there’s no way we’re spending it here, not like this.”
     Jessie was laughing now, for the first real time since James’ accident. “You’re mental. You realise how angry my mum will be when I turn up on the doorstep and she realises she hasn’t cooked enough potatoes?”
I thought of my own mother’s hysteria when it came to orchestrating Christmas dinner. My sudden arrival would put a real spanner in the works. She’d be furious. I couldn’t wait. 
     “She’ll get over it,” I said. “Jess, it’s been a crappy year, but by God it’s not going to be a crappy Christmas too. Christmas isn’t a time for being sad and alone. It’s a time for laughter and getting drunk and eating till you explode. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t think either of us are going to get all that from a bag of crisps for lunch and watching re-runs of Only Fools and Horses on TV.”
     I could see in her eyes that I’d convinced her. She didn’t want to be sad this Christmas any more than I did. I’d won. We were going home. Jessie grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. 
     “Alright, crazy Mickey. You’re on. I’ll meet you by the car in five minutes.”
     “Five minutes,” I repeated. And, grinning like a loon, I ran into my room to pack for what was hopefully going to be an unexpectedly very merry Christmas.

Creative Writing: "Over The Hill"

As ever, I wrote this for Folktakes, broadcast every Sunday 3-4pm on LSRfm.com. It's written to "Over The Hill" by Alessi's Ark. 
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Envy’s a funny one, isn’t it? I mean, no matter how much you try and control it, no matter how much you tell yourself you’re not the jealous type, it still finds a way in. It creeps around those barriers you build for yourself, burrowing its way under the wire and niggling away at you with a persistence that means you’ll soon be engulfed and drowning. A real green-eyed monster.

That’s what I am now. Envious and hurting, riddled with pain. I knew when we started this that I wasn’t the only one. That I wasn’t even the real one, that I was just your bit on the side. I thought I’d be ok with it, I thought that I could cope with the knowledge that all the time you weren’t with me you were with her, because I had you, or at least some of you, sometimes. 

But I’m not ok. I’m not ok at all. I’m seething with anguish. I can’t bear the thought that she gets to touch you, to hold you, to tell all she meets that you’re hers, whilst I… I get shadowy corners and late night messages and secrecy. I want to stand on the roof tops and scream that you’re mine. I want to write it in ten-foot letters on the side of buildings. I want to take you to places, to meet my mum, to show you off to my friends and have them all know that we’re in love. This, I would tell everyone, is my boyfriend. Isn’t he marvellous? Instead, I’m here biting my tongue again. Keeping secrets, keeping your secrets so you can keep her. Why am I doing this? I don’t want you to keep her, I don’t want to share you anymore! But if I betray you, you’ll leave me, and that hurt would be worse than any jealousy.

I think I’m tired of this. Tired of being second best, of living for your call. I hate the front I put on every time I see her hold your hand or stroke your hair, the pretence of indifference when all the while I’m dying inside. I barely remember the time before you, but then, I’m sure, I didn’t have to beg someone to love me. I’m sure that before you, I thought I deserved better. Not for the first time, I think of ending it, of cutting you off to stop you ripping me apart. But then you’re there, smiling, and I’m falling once again into the abyss.

Creative Writing: "My Year In Lists"

This piece was originally written for Folktales, your slice of story time and folk tunes 3-4pm every Sunday on LSRfm and hosted by the lovely Charlie. It was inspired by "My Year In Lists" by Los Campesinos! which Charlie very kindly deigned to play despite the fact that she hates them. I, however, love them and think you should love them too.
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Here is a notebook. Brown cover, brown pages. Blue writing. Page after page after page of neat cobalt letters, looping under and over and round, putting words to a year. A year in a life in lists. 

Flick through the pages, watch the words blur and smudge…

Stop! Eighth page - to do this week: call Marie, wash red dress, buy Debbie a present (three exclamation marks), pay window cleaner, find umbrella, write article (in capitals, five exclamation marks), see Dave (smiley face, two hearts). A doodle of a monkey eating a banana and a nameless phone number. 

Please turn over. And over and over. Sixteenth page now, entirely given over to the reminder that baking is not something to be attempted ever again. The seventeenth is for shopping (milk, cereal, bread, cheese, pesto, noodles, biscuits, toilet paper). Eighteenth, the letters to post that were probably never posted. Nineteenth, some train times. 

Peel back more pages. See the dates line up and march; one diary entry, two diary entry, three diary entry, four. Two lines each for that which slides from memory lest you pin it down forever with nails of ink. The recordings of important unimportance, written here to stop your mind letting them slip away like sand through a sieve. It’s a good job you’ve got this little brown book with its solid brown pages and sturdy grey lines. You can’t always trust that head of yours. 

Watch the words flash by. The things I should do and the things I should remember, punctuated by the books I should read (Catch 22, The Great Gatsby, The Midwich Cuckoos) and the bank details I shouldn’t have written in here but I’ll forget them otherwise. The people I should call. The albums I should listen to. Dates stretching from November 10th 2009 to… when?

To now. There’s a blank page, right at the back. It seems a shame to waste it. 

Blue ink flows. 

November 8th 2010. To do today: call Mum, call Marie, get ingredients for meal on Tuesday, pick up boots from the menders, take books back to library… 

Pause. I’m sure there’s something else, something important. Just think… 

Oh. Yes. In the same careful blue letters, I write the last three words of the year. 

Buy.
New.
Notebook.

Creative Writing: "Here's To My Old Friends"

This piece was originally written for Folktales, broadcast every Sunday 3-4pm on Leeds Student Radio (LSRfm) and hosted by the lovely Charlie. It was inspired by "Here's To My Old Friends" by Joseph and David and "Without You" by Ellen and the Escapades. Oh, and a few of my own thoughts and feelings. Enjoy.
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Here’s to my friends across the sea. I’m missing you again. It’s been years since I saw you last, though it’s not yet been two weeks. The time is not flying as we promised it would and it’s no fun here without you. I don’t like this distance… My drinking buddies and my dancing partners, my many shoulders to cry on and my cohorts in crime - I miss just chatting with you. When can we next wrap ourselves in sofa cushions and memories and drink tea and make wild plans? Icy wires don’t compare to sunny afternoons and real smiles. Your letters, full of anecdotes and imagined laughter, are like hugs with words. But I like the hugs with arms best. 

Without you, friends, what am I?

Lonely.

Here’s to my friends far away. Here’s to the one with the fullest heart, the one who always knows the right thing to say, and the one who’s just like me.  Here’s to the one who never says no to a party, the one who keeps me grounded, and the one who makes the best cupcakes. Here’s to the one that makes me laugh until I can no longer breathe. Here’s to the one who knows me better than I know myself. Here’s to the one who gives the biggest bear hugs. Here’s to you, every one of you. I should always tell you how brilliant you are because you are brilliant, always. I don’t deserve you, but I hope to God you never realise.

So, here’s to my old friends, my now friends, my always friends. I raise my glass and wait. And wait. And wait out the two month eternity until the next real smile. 

Creative Writing: "Misty Lights"

This piece was originally written for 'Folk Tales', which is broadcast 3-4pm every Sunday on LSRfm and is hosted by the wonderful Charlie. Like music? Like stories? It's your place to be of a Sunday afternoon. This piece was inspired by George Linton's "Misty Lights", and has a much happier tone than the last two I've written. Really, I don't know what's gotten into me. 
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I’ve been travelling for over twenty six hours. Two flights, three trains and now a hire car collected at Dover to carry me the rest of the way. It’s just gone half past two in the morning and I’ve stopped on the M1 for petrol and what feels like my millionth cup of coffee. It’s from grubby fast food restaurant and tastes foul but I drink it anyway, needing the caffeine kick. I can barely keep my eyes open; perhaps I should just give in a catch a couple of hours sleep before I hit the tarmac again. It seems silly though, when I’m so close. I should just plod on through, clear the last few miles and then when I do sleep it can be between deliciously soft white sheets that smell of lavender and with pillows as crisp and as cold as the frost outside. There I can drift off, happily, with my arms tightly wrapped the person I’ve been missing the most since I boarded the plane out of Edinburgh all those months ago.

As I sip my insult to the world of hot-beverages, I glance about at my fellow travellers. I’ve always loved service stations; even at night they remain full of life, half-way houses for hundreds of people trying, like me, to be somewhere else. I watch a lorry driver, alone in the corner, ferry a dubious looking bacon sandwich to his mouth whilst he absent-mindedly thumbs through a copy of yesterday’s Daily Mail. A few tables away is a young father, looking exhausted to his very bones and cradling his tiny daughter on his shoulder. She is sound asleep and wears a pink bobble hat that has slipped slightly so that it obscures one eye, giving her the look of a miniature blonde pirate. Next is a dishevelled business man, chugging the same horrible coffee as I am and, despite the early hour, talking loudly into his expensive mobile phone about stock prices or some other such business nonsense. Over by the door is a group of teenagers looking barely old enough to drive, all wrapped up against the fierce November air and laughing as they pass round a steaming hip-flask. Last but not least, the cleaning lady, her pinny slung over the back of her chair as she sneaks a crafty break with a magazine and a packet of custard creams.  Oh, and me, all puffy eyes and crumpled skirt, sleep-deprived and in desperate need of a shower. I wonder what I look like to these people? Do I just look dog-tired, or can they tell, perhaps by the way I’ve been smiling into my coffee, that I’m uncontrollably happy?

I drain the dregs from my cup, pick up my coat and scarf and head for the door. The business man, still shouting into his phone, follows me out. He slams off toward his sleek Mercedes, business jacket and briefcase flying, whilst I wander serenely over to the rented Fiat and clamber inside. I drop my bag onto the empty crisp packets on the passenger seat, laughing at the crunch, buckle my seatbelt and kick the engine to life. I say good bye to the service station and pull out of the car park and onto the motorway, full of bustle and noise and a blaze of light. And as the miles fall away behind me, I find myself drawn, with a smile, to the tiny pin-pricks that are the street lights stretching all the way into the distance, forming a glittering gold path in the sky. They dance, twinkling, in front of my tired eyes, giving me a lease of life the coffee never managed to, and they pull me towards them, inviting me onwards to join them in the stars…

They are my own private path of light, my very own yellow brick road, but they’re better than that because they lead somewhere much, much more magical that the Emerald City. They lead to the most important place in the whole world. They lead to home.

Creative Writing: "Choices"

This piece was originally written for 'Folk Tales', which is broadcast 3-4pm every Sunday on LSRfm and is hosted by the wonderful Charlie. LISTEN, it's ace. It was inspired by Tim and Sam's Tim and the Sam Band's song "Choices", as well as a touch of Trainspotting and a dash of Forgetting Sarah Marshall. 

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Choose to wake at noon. Choose to call in sick to work for the fourth day in a row. Choose to wear only joggers and T Shirts that no longer fit and not to shower. Choose to stay indoors with the curtains drawn and eat nothing but frozen pizzas and increasingly stale biscuits that leave crumbs on the carpet and down your front. Choose to ignore those missed calls from your friends. Choose to ignore, too, that text from Jeff or Dave or whoever inviting you to the pub. Choose, instead, to spend your evening alone again, pouring too many whiskies and watching terrible late night television. Choose to venture out only for cigarettes, occasionally buying a DVD or two from the bargain bins beside the till. Choose to watch these DVDs repeatedly despite their mediocrity, and even choose to cry at the weepy bits. Choose to cry about other things too, things you’d rather not talk about just now, or next week, or ever.  Choose to spend hours just staring at a picture of her face. Choose to drunkenly burn that picture before bottling out at the last minute lest it feel like losing her all over again. Choose to realise that it was your fault she left, your own stupid fault. Choose to acknowledge yourself as the architect of your own misery, and pour yourself yet another drink. Choose to drain the bottle because that’s the only way you’ll sleep. Choose to end your day when the birds begin theirs, falling onto your mattress as the first thrush sings. Choose the engulfing arms of sleep, even though you know, you know, she’ll be there still, haunting your dreams. 

Choose, eventually, to break the cycle of lonely self-loathing. Choose to leave the whiskey in the cupboard. Choose to accept that invite to the pub, to see people. Choose to put on a clean shirt for the first time in what seems like years.  Choose to smile wanly at the cheers that greet you as you arrive, accept the slaps on the back without comment. Choose to lie to their grinning faces when they ask how you are and say that you’re fine, that you’re doing ok. Choose to order a pint. Choose to sit quietly and drink it. Choose to quash your desire to bolt for the door when the conversation inevitably turns to your consolation. Choose to nod in meek agreement when Jeff says that she was never good enough for you - even though you know deep in your wasted heart that she was far better than you’ll ever be - and listen as your friends tear apart the woman you love before your eyes and ears. Choose to wish you were anywhere else, anywhere but here. Anyone but you.

Choose, then, to order another beer, then another, then another and another. Choose watch the grins turn to grimaces as you sink pint number twelve, the note of false cheeriness in your voice becoming louder and more slurred with every sentence. Choose to remain oblivious to the increasingly nervous atmosphere, ordering drink after drink, knowing that happiness will be at the bottom of the next glass. When the room begins to revolve, choose to stumble from the pub to the street, the cool air hitting you like a fist, worried shouts from your friends still ringing in your ears. Choose to shake Dave’s concerned hand from your arm when he follows you outside and set off for home at a run, just wanting to get away, from the pub, from yourself, from everything.

Choose, after to ten minutes, to sit, head spinning, on somebody’s front wall to catch your breath. Your phone is ringing – Jeff – choose to reject. Instead, stupidly, choose to call her. Choose to believe in your desperate drunken way that, this time, begging her to take you back again will actually work. Choose to dial her number. Choose to listen to the ringing on the other end of the line as you clutch the handset to your cheek, breathing harsh and ragged. Ring ring. Ring ring. Choose to gasp with fear and hate and anguish when the sleepy voice that answers is not hers at all, but his. He’s there, him, in your place, where you should be. With her. Choose to let the phone slide from your face to your lap, still wrapped in your shaking fist. When the sleepy voice says ‘hello’ once more, choose to frantically mash the call-end button with drunken fingers. Then silence. Then rage. Hot, boiling, venomous rage. Choose to hurl your mobile phone against the curb, choose to watch it shatter, slow motion, into a million tiny fragments, shattering just like your heart shattered when she told you she was leaving…

Choose to sit on that lonely wall until dawn, not moving, making no sound. Numb. A statue. Choose to watch the sun rise over silent suburbia without actually seeing it at all. Then, as the world around you begins to wake, choose to make a decision. Choose to collect the little that remains of your phone, to pick yourself up, to walk unsteadily home, to find your keys, to go inside, to shower, to have a decent breakfast, to get ready for work, to face the day, and the next day, and the next. Choose to clean the house and to wash the dishes, to sort the mail and to take out the rubbish. Choose to start answering your emails again. And, when you catch your own eye in the mirror, hair combed, fresh shirt, clean-shaven, choose to know that, finally, you’ll be just fine. 

Creative Writing: "We Could Pretend"

This piece was originally written for 'Folk Tales', which is broadcast 3-4pm every Sunday on LSRfm and is hosted by the wonderful Charlie. It was inspired by Ruth Moody's "We Could Pretend", and though it was inspired by the title only, but I urge to listen to the song as well, because it is beautiful. 
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When we were kids, we could pretend. We could pretend for hours and we would never get bored or tired. We could pretend for hours, shunning food and water, our appetites satisfied and our thirst quenched by the sparks in our own synapses as we quested for make-believe adventure. We could pretend for hours and hours and hours and our imaginations, our wonderful, youthful, vibrant imaginations would never fail us, never let us down.

What could we pretend today? Let’s pretend, yeah… let’s pretend we’re astronauts! Yeah, and we’ve got this huge spaceship with a thousand rocket blasters on the back, shooting us through space, past the moon and the planets and far out into the starts. We’ll whirl past Jupiter and Saturn, dodging asteroids and clouds of mysterious space dust and we’ll wave to the tiny blue men who live on Pluto who eat nothing but ice cream because it’s so cold there. We’ll stop for tea with them maybe, and tell them about our little blue planet far away full of lush green plant life and bustling cities and thunderous seas, and they’ll tell us about the Plutonian ice mines deep underground with walls that are as smooth as glass and that sparkle like diamonds…

Or we could pretend, right… we could pretend we’re pirates! Vicious, blood-thirsty pirates, wielding cutlasses and touting pistols, feared throughout the Spanish Main! We’ll be captains of our own vessel and it’ll be the fastest ship on the entire ocean, with rows and rows of cannons and a polished mahogany wheel at the helm and a fierce carved dragon leading the way as we plough through the water. We’ll raid merchant ships, stealing their gold and their silver and stuffing our hold with swag. If anyone is fool enough to attack us we’ll show them no mercy, running them through with our blades or slitting their throats and taking their ships for our own. We’ll be on the most wanted list in every port, constantly evading capture by the skin of our teeth, and at night we’ll sit on deck and reminisce about our last daring escape, swigging rum from the bottle and laughing so our gold teeth glint in the moonlight…

Or how about we pretend… no, listen! How about we pretend that we’re explorers? Yeah, yeah, explorers, hacking our way through the jungle in search of a legendary tomb that has been lost for over two thousand years, and that is said to be cursed... We’ll carry guns slung across our shoulders and knives at our sides to protect ourselves against the dangers that may befall us, such the poisonous snakes disguised as vines that hang precariously from the jungle canopy, or the spiders the size of dinner plates that hide, poised to strike, in the undergrowth. A tiger will emerge suddenly on the path ahead; a fierce, snarling tiger, its beautiful orange and midnight fur speckled with drops of blood from its last kill, and we’ll run, faster than we even knew we could run, stumbling over roots and rocks until suddenly we’re falling, falling down into darkness… We’ll land with a jolt that knocks their air from our lungs, not on cold earth but on cold stone – we’ve found the tomb! We’ll prize open the ancient door, coughing as dust millennia old finds its way to our throats, and peer deep, deep into the darkness beyond…

When we were kids, we could pretend a million and one things, for a million and one reasons: because we were bored, or afraid, lonely or in pain, for fun or to escape the real world. Our imaginations would never cease to create new scenarios in which to immerse ourselves and every Saturday afternoon saw the birth of a new favourite game, games that always begin with the words “let’s pretend…” But as we slowly slip into adulthood, into rental agreements and nine-to-fives and coffee, as responsibility settles on our shoulders, at first like butterflies but then like bricks, we discover we can no longer pretend. We can no longer retreat back into that shining world behind our eyes where we’re heroes and where we could control our own destiny. Imagination, our childhood protector, saving us always from tedium or anguish, is gone, leaving reality, a brutal, unrelenting force as a poor replacement. And throughout every test of reality - a bounced cheque, a lost loved-one, another broken heart – we can’t even count on our own minds to wrap us in the comforting blanket of make-believe and, for just a couple of hours, make everything ok. Some say this makes us stronger, better people, that pretending never helped anyone, that action is better than words and that memories and other substance-less imaginings are a waste of valuable time, are childish and nonsensical…

But is it so wrong to cherish those substance-less imaginings, those memories of when the line between reality and pretence was precariously thin and when we used to dance, laughing, along its edge? Is it so wrong to want, occasionally, to be childish? To want to forget in times of sorrow, to be a hero for a little while? No, it is not. It is natural regret that we can no longer be a pirates or a spacemen or a cowboys or any number of fantastical things. It is understandable to mourn for our deceased imagination that means we must always be an adults and boring, accepting this one existence that is sadly lacking in mysticism and excitement. Our imagination has poured away through our fingers along with the sands of time, and it is a shame, a terrible, terrible waste. We miss it, always, and look on jealously at those still youthful enough to be able to construct another, more brilliant reality for themselves, a new reality every day. And, most of all, at those moments in life where we want to escape, when we feel suffocated by our surroundings or when the pain is too much to bear, we wish with all our hearts, that as adults we, too, could create a new reality. That we, too, could pretend…